These Four Walls

 

 

     The pot is bubbling contentedly,

my rice softening as this shoebox dwelling -

   persists a hardening,

     I can hear and I do note the steam

now covering all surface known shiny,

 

     I sit listening and note the modulation

be quickening, the bubbles faster and faster

   as liquid disappears.

 

     Here I am, noting with stubborn stare

the liquid sounds like it has all but gone,

           ‘should I tend the pot?’

   Or should I let it stay upon the heat as if -

      an experiment in human sacrifice;-

       ‘should, I tend the pot??’

 

     There now persists a notion I should

write some meaningful drawl that associates

   loneliness living with your fallacy of which,

      ‘I hope you never experience!’

 

          Do I tend the pot?

 

   Do I tend the pot for it

has stopped making noise but,

     now there is pale blue smoke bellowing

        from the kitchen some two point five feet

             away,

     the fire alarms would sound but,

I placed bowl beneath them and blu tacked all seals so;

         no shreek of alarm from the seven alarms

    between kitchen and lounge.

 

     The blackness has me coughing

and I can just see the smoke evacuating

   and saying hello to the neighbours television;-

      the seven sisters remain silent just like

          a child upon Dovers Beach.

 

     Before I lose consciousness -

I remember the red and blue clown shoes

   adorned with reams of masking tape

       to stop them talking and I think,

            ‘only these four walls know!’

 

 

 

Michael J Waite 26th May 2024.